Ad Hominem
by yamikinoko
Summary: .Mia x Godot x Maya. His body tells him what his mind does not, but it doesn't matter.


**Disclaimer**: _I do not own __**Phoenix Wright**__. It is the property of __**Capcom**__; I merely borrow the characters for my own amusement._

--

**Ad Hominem**

_Her name is a hardly a gasp from his lips, the merest whisper of breath,_

Mia…

_He reaches out to gather her in, and there is that luxurious hair, that flawless skin—that quirked smirk-smile and he breathes her in for the first time in—forever._

Mia…

_There she is, sliding over the bed, over him as he draws her closer, and he cannot believe that she is real (either her, either him) so he strokes his hands through her hair, along the fine line of her jaw. She chuckles, and leans towards him._

Diego…_ she murmurs, and he closes his eyes—her fingers ghost over the thin, strong lips, the bridge of his nose, the nearly-sightless eyes, the scar at his temple, _Diego…

--

There was a time when the man in the mirror was someone he knew. Diego Armando – mirror, mirror – was hailed as a star in the world of criminal defense, successful at what he did, successful at everything, really, just—

_Once upon a time_, like most fairytales, a time unreachable.

Now, Diego Armando no longer exists, and in his place there is only Godot, a man stranger to everyone, including himself—_especially_ himself. _Godot is a prosecutor_, he tells himself, in an effort at remembrance, _You _are_ Godot_. Sometimes, when guilt and anger and pain and _hate_ gnaw at him most, he has no problem believing so.

But even in those instances, the Man-in-the-Visored-Mask reaches towards himself in the mirror, and cannot remember his own face, the one that used to smirk back, confident and the owner of the world.

Back when he was a man, with a life, with a career, with a – so hot, so _sexy_ – woman at his side—a woman who knew _him_.

(Back then, he _did_ have the world, but only then.)

--

The bed shifted slightly as he rolled onto his side, to watch as she smiled briefly at him with a mesmerizing tilt of her lips, as she tugged gently at the scarf encircling the pale expanse of her throat, and the expression he returned made her chuckle, to take a teasing half-step back.

Now his Kitten, his Lioness, his _Mia_ is sliding across the sheets towards him, in a way that makes his very-experienced (dirty, really) mind whirl, and fizzle out as he takes her into his arms, and feels her skin against his. He sees the anticipation in her eyes, hears it from her lush and tempting lips, tastes it against her flesh, and surrounds himself in the scent of _her_, of Mia, _his _Mia.

He remembers thinking that he would hold them together like this, as much one as they would ever be (though their minds were never much different, waking or sleeping, together or otherwise) and that he would never let go, no matter what would try to come between them.

--

_The bed shivers as she lowers her arms to bend down to him, as he trembles with the violence of a need too long unmet, and her lips, soft and moist against his whisper to him,_

Diego…

_He tries to tell her, that he is Godot, that he had changed for _her_, but the words would not come, and the thoughts would not stay. Her hands, fine and delicate, assured in their movements, glide over his skin. The bed (or is it really him?) shudders._

How? _he wants to ask, _How is this possible?

Mia_, he tries to gasp, but a gentle finger to his lips stills him, and a shake of her head silences him, as effectively as any bullet, as any _poison_, and kisses the tear from his cheek, and the anguish from the corners of his mouth, the tension and the bottled-up hate from his body._

_And because his lips were not permitted, his mind cried with his every rasping breath,_

Mia… Mia, Mia, Mia—

_And because he cannot stop himself, he is the one pressing her into the mattress, and he is the one from whom the words slip,_

I love you— _I love you, _please don't leave me.

_He doesn't remember her reply, or if there ever was one in words that existed._

--

The clock at his bedside ticks off the minutes that he lies there, as he has done for so many nights, and he wonders briefly if it had all been a dream. There was alcohol involved, to be sure, for he can see it on the dining room table, even from here.

Then he breathes in the scent of _her_, and exhales a sigh that disturbs the fine strands of her hair. There is a slender woman in his arms, and his first thought, _Mia_, is immediately discarded by the memory of her death, and of the woman—no, _girl_ he holds, whose shoulders are smaller, and whose form is daintier than Mia's.

_Mia_, his mind insists, with a note bordering on hysteria, and despair.

"Maya…" his lips whisper, and pulls her close.

In her sleep, she snuggles closer, as _Mia_ would have done.

"Mr. Armando…" she murmurs, as _Mia_ would most definitely not have done.

But he can't find it in himself to care.


End file.
